


songs in my head

by lavitanuova



Series: if we were lesbians by necessity [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Artificial Intelligence, F/F, Harm to Children, Panic Attacks, Possession, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavitanuova/pseuds/lavitanuova
Summary: and there are voices in my headso many voices in my headand they can yell and hurt like hellbut i know that i'll be fineMeg Giry's sure that there's something strange about her best friend's sudden rise to teenage royalty at their esteemed arts school. Christine Daae suspects that the artificial intelligence speaking with her father's voice may not have the best intentions. R de Changy has never met a problem she couldn't stab.Meanwhile, Erik is determined to get Christine Daae to stardom, at any cost. Even if it means having to kill to do it.[the be more chill crossover literally no one wanted][first draft and first multichapter fic, might be kind of embarrassing and disjointed, you've been warned][previously published as "and i know i don't possess you"]
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: if we were lesbians by necessity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989154
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. everything and nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine has a revelation. Meg is confused but trying her best. R is adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited 5.06!!

Emerging from a particularly tiring day of dance practice, Margeux Giry briefly considers dropping out of dance school to become a stripper. But it's only for a split second- firstly, her mother would never approve, and secondly, she'd miss talking to her best friend. Meg's wiping her sweat-sheened brow when her phone dings, informing her that Christine Daae's sent her a message. Instantly, her face lights up, exhaustion forgotten. She hasn't been able to talk to Christine since the audition last week, when she'd opened her mouth and the music of angels emerged. Since then, she'd been swarmed with admirers everywhere she went, leaving Meg with little or no time to contact her friend. It's strange- the only times Meg had heard Christine sing before was during sleepovers, doing karaoke of whatever Sondheim cast album Christine was most obsessed with that month, and she had been brilliant then, but not like this. Nobody could have sung like she did without help.

mgiry1881: where in the world r u?? i couldnt find u yesterday after the audition  
little_lotte: Sorry! I had to rush somewhere. I saw you in the wings, by the way. Thanks for coming to see me! How was I?  
mgiry1881: u dont even have to ask. u did fantastic ofc! u were literally perfect wow!!!! <3 <3  
mgiry1881: i think andre and firmin loved it. u r definitely getting into the gala  
little_lotte: Thanks!  
mgiry1881: i only wish i could be as talented as u but alas i am only a ballerina and i cannot sing at all. what r ur secrets.  
little_lotte: Oh, I can't take all the credit. My tutor helped a lot.  
mgiry1881: [eyes emoji]  
mgiry1881: i didnt know u had voice lessons. whos the mystery tutor?  
kristin die: You have to promise not to call me crazy, though.  
little_lotte: Have you heard about this thing called an Angel?  
little_lotte: It's a small grey pill that you eat, and it travels to your brain and it speaks to you. 

Meg stares at the message. Reads it again. Refreshes the chat, just to make sure it's not a glitch. 

mgiry1881: what.  
mgiry1881: um.  
mgiry1881: is it drugs. because it kind of sounds like it's drugs.  
mgiry1881: are you doing drugs.  
little_lotte: It's not drugs, I promise. It's kind of like a personal teacher. You can hear it but no one else can, and it's always in your head. Carlotta says that her Angel takes a human form. Mine doesn't, however, and I don't know why. But it's been training me this whole time!  
mgiry1881: give me a minute i need to wrap my head around this  
mgiry1881: carlotta has one?  
little_lotte: She's the one that introduced me to this whole concept of Angels in the first place. A lot of people have one, by the way, but apparently most of them take the form of celebrities and whatnot. Carlotta's is apparently Andrea Bocelli.  
mgiry1881: ...  
mgiry1881: so when I heard you talking to yourself that one time...  
little_lotte: I was speaking to the Angel in my head.

Meg smiles. Classic Christine, she assures herself. Always making up imaginary friends. She decides to humour her.

mgiry1881: so whos your angel?  
mgiry1881: let me guess hes probably some composer or something.  
mgiry1881: bc ur such a nerd  
little_lotte: He has my father's voice.  
little_lotte: Also, I need to log off. Apologies. There's a girl at the door.  
little_lotte went offline.  
mgiry1881: oh well

==

R de Changy tucks a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear for the hundreth time today. She's bouncing on her heels at the door of a music room, clutching a bouquet of flowers behind her back. She hopes her makeup looks okay. She's not that used to doing makeup, but Philippe said it looked nice, and she trusts her older brother, doesn't she? Wasn't he the one who encouraged her to improve her violin skills, and the one who got her into the music school? After what seems like an eternity, the door unlocks, revealing a lithe brown-skinned teenage girl dressed in a leotard and skirt. Her hair falls in gorgeously tight curls down her back, her eyes shining bright, her face radiant as the sun. Christine. Her childhood friend, who R never thought she'd be able to meet again, not until the auditions yesterday.

Christine squints at R, brow furrowed. "Who-"

R produces the roses from behind her back like she's a magician, thrusting them out in front of her, a great wide grin on her face. "Mademoisille, I'm the one who went into the sea to rescue your scarf!" It's only when someone behind turns that she realises she might have spoken a slight bit too loudly, and her cheeks redden. 

"Raoul?" Christine steps back, shocked. She takes the flowers absently.

"It's R now, actually."

The look of surprise on Christine's face changes to a look of wonder. "You've... changed. Really not a bit the gawkish child that you once were." 

She steps into the room, and R goes in after her. 

==

Meg sits on her bed in her fancy orange bathrobe, hair still wet with fresh dye, checking her notifications. She's got a few unread messages from Christine, but instead of answering them she just stares at the little picture with Christine's face in it and a red bubble at the side and doesn't open them. Christine is just pulling her leg, isn't she? She's always been such a dreamy girl, but this time her regular whimsical fairy/ghost/vampire drama seems somehow more serious. Talking in riddles isn't like her.

little_lotte: I am having a Problem, Meg, please send help :(  
mgiry1881: a relationship problem or a weird-angel-ghost problem  
little_lotte: The former.  
mgiry1881: u do know im the worst person to ask about this right  
little_lotte: I know you're not interested in romance, but you're the closest friend I have and the only one I can ask.  
mgiry1881: k  
mgiry1881: only for u babe  
mgiry1881: but you know im hopeless with boys  
little_lotte: It's a girl problem, actually.  
mgiry1881: ooooooo  
mgiry1881: pls do tell  
little_lotte: What does it mean if I thought I was straight and then I find a girl cute? But the girl is trans and I'm not sure if I'm being transphobic because I've only liked boys before.  
mgiry1881: whats her name  
little_lotte: R.  
mgiry1881: just r?  
mgiry1881: i think ive heard of her. her parents donate lots of money to the school  
mgiry1881: did you know her b4?  
little_lotte: Yes, actually. She was my childhood friend. I knew her by a different name back then, and we hadn't met for a while.  
little_lotte: She still remembers when we were kids reading together when papa was alive, and we'd have picnics in the attic and play by the beach. Once, when we were both eight, she waded into the cold sea to fetch my scarf.  
little_lotte: She showed up at the door of the music room where I was practising today with a bouquet of honest-to-God roses and the biggest puppy-dog blue eyes and blushy cheeks and freckles and messy blonde hair that she kept tucking behind her ear and she's so sweet and nice and pretty. I think I have a crush on her.  
little:lotte: Oh, sorry, I'm being sappy, aren't I? I hope I'm not annoying you.  
mgiry1881: 1. yes u r being sappy. but its ok u r allowed to be sappy bc u r my best friend in the whole world.  
mgiry1881: 2. puberty. and also probs transitioning lol.  
little_lotte: But I'm still worried I'm being sort of—  
mgiry1881: christine.  
mgiry1881: chill.  
mgiry1881: ik u r probably having a crisis rn bc u just figured out u are attracted to girls  
mgiry1881: but its fine. theres nothing wrong w/ being bi. being bi is totally normal. heck i think sorelli from our class is bi as well.  
mgiry1881: also do u think she's into you? (SHE'S TOTALLY INTO YOU, SHE BROUGHT YOU FLOWERS, THAT'S SO ROMANTIC, MARRY HER ALREADY??)  
little_lotte: She asked me out to lunch tomorrow.  
mgiry1881: as in a date sort of "lunch" or a friends sort of "lunch"?  
little_lotte: But I'm not sure I can make it. I probably shouldn't, anyway. The Angel was very clear on that.  
little_lotte went offline  
mgiry1881: wait what  
mgiry1881: christine baby light of my life do you mind explaining whats going on  
mgiry1881: fine then  
mgiry1881: keep your secrets


	2. this chapter is bad i'm so sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few notes are sent out to a few people. Meanwhile, Christine has a chat with her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAA THIS IS TERRIBLE I'M SORRY
> 
> i can't write erik

It's 12AM, and Andre Moncharmin is waiting for the last train back home when his phone starts to ring. The opening strains of Memory begin to fill the near-empty Metro station, and he sighs dramatically. What would anyone want with him at this hour? He pulls his phone out of his bag and picks up the call anyway. 

It's Firmin on the other end. Tired. Confused. Of course, now that the performance is looming, both of them are nearly always tired and confused, but now he sounds even more tired and confused than normal. 

“Check your email.”

  
  


to: armand_moncharmin@lyceedeartsperformants.edu.fr and firmin_richard@lyceedeartsperformants.edu.fr

from: og@gmail.com

subject: A Note

Messieurs, I kindly suggest you cast Christine Daae in the end-of-year performance. It would be a great opportunity for her, and I do believe it would be quite disagreeable if you did not. After all, if something were to go wrong- the teachers will look for someone to blame, and who better to blame than the two sixteen-year-olds managing a major performance for the first time?

O.G.

  
  


* * *

HURRY UP AND FINISH THIS, Andrea Boccelli- or the robot in Carlotta’s head with his voice- says. 

_ Can you just write the essay for me?  _ Carlotta really does not have the mental energy to write 6 pages about French gothic literature right now. Thank God for the Angel- this 600 euro pill just might save her scholarship with the best music school in Paris.

FINE. 

_ Grazie. _

She relaxes, letting the Angel take over her body. It's only written a few paragraphs when her phone rings, Caller ID telling her it’s Moncharmin. It takes only seconds for Carlotta to take back control of her body, spinning her chair and grabbing her phone, ignoring the protests of her Angel telling her to focus on her work. 

“It’s a bit late for a call,” she says, but what she really wants to say is  _ Did you cast me? _

“Did you get an email too?”

“Who even uses email nowadays?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Give me a minute. Let me check.”

to: carlotta_guidicelli@lyceedeartsperformants.edu.fr

from: og@gmail.com

subject: A Note

Your days at this school are numbered. Christine Daaé will be singing on your behalf in three weeks. Be prepared for a great misfortune should you attempt to take her place. It would be such a shame if the Office of Financial Aid knew you were buying illegal “medications”.

O.G.

* * *

Meg Giry knows, objectively, it's silly to miss American food when she's living in  _ France _ . But when she's stressed and homesick, there's nothing better than a soft drink or packet of chips filled with sixty different types of chemicals and sugars. 

Which is why it's midnight and she's sipping an overpriced bottle of Mountain Dew she bought from the back room of a Carrefour. She's silently cursing the European Union for banning her favourite soft drink, refreshing her email again and again, when something pops up.  _ Please let it be Chris. _

In the morning, R de Changy will fix her eyeliner and wait for her phone to power on. She knows the results of the audition will be announced that day, and she'll wonder if she might get a place in the orchestra. The screen will light up, and the notifications will flood in. Three missed calls. Fifty missed messages. One missed email.

to: margeux_giry@lyceedeartsperformants.edu.fr and renee_dechangy@lyceedeartsperformants.edu.fr

from: og@gmail.com

subject: A Note

Do not attempt to contact Miss Daae again. The Angel of Music has her under his wing.

O.G. 

* * *

TEN HOURS EARLIER

Christine Daae sits cross-legged in front of a mirror in Mamma Valerius' tiny Parisian apartment, clutching a locket. The window is cracked open, just a bit, letting the golden light in. The sounds of the city float up from beneath, but she tunes them out. She's busy listening to the voice in her head.

YOU DID WELL AT THE AUDITION. I AM SURE THEY WILL CAST YOU. HOW COULD THEY NOT? She smiles. She never thought she'd be able to hear his voice again- at the cost of a few hundred euros, of course, but what is that compared to having her papa back?

She lowers her voice and speaks in her mind, which is something she's never quite gotten used to. 

_ Thank you. But I'm not sure if they would cast me. There's Carlotta, of course, and they always cast her. There's only room for one soprano in the production. _

DON'T WORRY. I SENT A FEW ELECTRONIC MAILS TO THE STUDENTS IN CHARGE. HOPEFULLY, I HAVE CONVINCED THEM.

_ So you do know how to use the Internet!  _

I KNOW HOW TO DO QUITE A FEW THINGS, the voice says and suddenly Christine remembers that this is not her father, it is only a computer program with the voice of her father-

I HAVE YOUR FATHER'S SPIRIT. IS THAT NOT ENOUGH?

She doesn't know how to respond. A lively chime cuts through the silence, and Christine scrambles for her phone.

giry: hey can we chat?

giry: im worried abt u

WHY WOULD SHE BE WORRIED?

"I don't know," Christine says out loud, but she does know.

The voice grows stern. YOU CAN'T LIE TO ME, I'M INSIDE YOUR BRAIN. BY THE WAY, PUT DOWN THE PHONE. YOU'RE BUSY TALKING TO ME.

_ Meg's my friend. I can't ignore her. _

I NEVER SAID SHE WASN'T. YOU WILL BE ABLE TO TALK TO HER LATER, IF YOU REALLY MUST. BUT YOU DO KNOW THAT-

_ Yes, I must choose music before anything else. That's what you always said- say, I mean. _

THAT'S MY CHRISTINE. A breeze brushes against her shoulder, but there's no draft in the room. 

_ Is that...you? _

PERHAPS.

_ Oh! _ And Christine has the wildest urge to reach out and hug her papa, but she touches nothing but air. She will have to content herself with a breeze, but she does not quite mind doing that. She does not think of how a program can cause the sensation of a phantom in the room, how the real Gustave Daae has been sealed in a grave for many years. She thinks only of the breeze upon her shoulder, and how it feels very much like his hand. 

YOU ARE A VERY TALENTED YOUNG LADY. YOU HAVE SO MUCH POTENTIAL. BUT TO FULFILL THIS POTENTIAL, WE MUST PUSH ALL TRIVIAL MATTERS ASIDE.

_ But- nevermind. _

WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT SENTENCES?

_ One must always finish them. _

EXACTLY.

Christine sighs.  _ What about R? _

WHAT ABOUT HER?

_ Um. She obviously likes me, I like her back, and I don't know what to do about that. _

I HAVE NOTHING AGAINST YOU HAVING FEELINGS FOR ANOTHER GIRL. HOWEVER, IT IS THE TRUTH THAT SHE WILL DISTRACT YOU FROM YOUR MUSIC. YOU WILL BE MUCH BETTER OFF WITHOUT ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS IN YOUR LIFE. IT IS NOT THAT I DO NOT CARE ABOUT YOUR EMOTIONS. I AM SIMPLY LOOKING AT THIS FROM A SCIENTIFIC POINT OF VIEW. EXTRANEOUS MATTERS WILL SIMPLY INTERFERE WITH YOUR CONCENTRATION.

_ I suppose you're right, but all the same it is very lonely with only music for company. _

YOU HAVE ME. AM I NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU?

Christine doesn't say anything.

I BELIEVE IN YOU. I BELIEVE THAT ONE DAY YOU WILL SING AND THE WHOLE WORLD WILL LISTEN.

_ Really? _

The fluttering curtains cast shadows on the wall, and they warp into the hint of a smile.

I'M PROUD OF YOU.

The words shock Christine. Papa never said that when he was alive, preferring to show his affection in gifts and small smiles and pats on the back. Hearing those words, it's all Christine ever wanted. 

LET'S TAKE IT FROM THE TOP. WE'LL NEED TO PREPARE FOR THE PERFORMANCE AHEAD OF TIME.


	3. two gal pals on a rooftop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zero meters apart because they're gay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was SO HARD TO WRITE yall dont even know aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa never let me write romance ever ever again im so bad at it it's not even funny. im so sorry alw and gaston leroux i butchered your story worse than love never dies did I can't do this

Ten minutes to the beginning of the first tech rehearsal. Meg Giry sits backstage with a group of her ballet friends while they gossip with a stagehand, Joseph. Joseph knows everything about everyone, and he’s regaling Jammes and Sorelli with tales of a ghost that haunts the music room. She isn’t listening to the conversation, however. She’s too busy skimming her old messages.

giry: if were going 2 get anywhere on this mystery  
giry: were going 2 have 2 work together  
...  
r: she spoke of an angel.  
giry: i've researched it. this american girl on the internet, madeline, told me there was a boy at her school who took one. she said he went crazy trying to take it out.  
r: ????  
r: they can say anything on the internet, you know. it seems too crazy to be true. i think it’s just an urban legend.  
…  
giry: fine.  
giry: christine must be protected.  
giry: im going to wait at the back and catch her after rehearsal. shes got to realise that this thing is dangerous. its not an angel. its a madman.

“Don’t you have places to be?” Meg’s mother’s voice rings out from across the auditorium. Joseph and the ballet girls straighten and glance at each other, rats in a trap. There’s nobody in Lycee de Arts Performants who isn’t scared out of their wits by Mme. Giry, discipline master and ballet mistress- so they scatter, faster than light, Joseph scurrying off to fix the lighting, Meg and the others scrambling to their places. On her way to the front, she sees R in the orchestra pit, and for a split-second they lock eyes. 

==

Christine runs a brush through her hair, almost too violently, and stares in the mirror backstage.

YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BRUSH CURLY HAIR.

I know, I know, Papa.

YOU SHOULD BE OUT THERE AS THE LEAD RIGHT NOW. I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY’RE DOING THIS TO YOU. 

I’ll be fine.

YOU ARE CONTENT WASTING YOUR TALENTS ON A BIT ROLE?

A stagehand passes by carrying a box of microphone stands. He looks back. Scoffs. “Are you talking to yourself? Oh my god, you’re such a freak.” Continues walking.

Christine freezes, but she doesn’t have much time to wallow in her embarrassment before someone’s calling her, it’s her cue. The stage is bright and everything’s in place and it’s hard to believe that in a week it’ll be the final rehearsal and then she’ll be performing to a packed auditorium. 

GOOD LUCK. BREAK A LEG.

Christine steps out onto the stage.

==

Carlotta looks out at the mostly-empty auditorium, takes a deep breath, and realises she’s forgotten her line.

Merda. Angel, mind helping?

IF HE KNEW THE TRUTH-

The voice cuts off in mid-sentence, words dissolving into electronic glitches.

Angel. Angel?

She doesn’t have time to be confused, for the speakers are glitching too, loud and dissonant, and she swears she’ll have to kill Buquet-they give him one job and he screws it up-

“MY INSTRUCTIONS WERE SIMPLE.” someone booms over the speakers.

Carlotta casts a glance at Christine, who looks guilty-terrified-guilty, and everything makes sense. It’s just a prank by Christine, getting someone to interrupt rehearsal because she’s angry and jealous about not getting cast.

Christine says something, but Carlotta doesn’t hear it. How dare the girl interrupt? This is all her fault. 

She shields her mic with her hand. “Your part is silent,” she hisses, and turns back. She doesn’t expect her earpiece to explode with feedback, and she can see everybody in the hall wince. It’s so loud, so loud that she can’t focus on anything other than pulling the earpiece off, and someone is running backstage and someone is yelling and the voice is screaming through the speakers LET IT BE WAR UPON YOU and the voice in her head is dead silent and the lights are flickering and sparking and Christine is still looking as if she has a right to be scared and her earpiece won’t come off and it’s so loud, it’s so loud, she can’t stop the noise, it’s utter chaos-

And then Joseph Buquet, fifteen year old stagehand, falls onto the stage and doesn’t move an inch.

==

Christine slams a door open and R follows behind her, running into the bright sunlight of the school rooftop. Christine’s angry, scared, guilty, and the image of the boy lying on the stage is burned into her eyelids, and she’s a criminal running from the crime scene like a coward. This is all her fault.

They come to a stop, panting, in the cold concrete expanse of the rooftop, surrounded by the warm yellow brick of suburban Paris. R watches her like she’s a bomb about to go off any second.

“Are you okay? Why are we here?” she asks, and god, she doesn’t deserve her, does she? R doesn’t know she’s guilty. R doesn’t know what the thing in her head-suspiciously silent, now- has done. 

Christine is dimly aware of the fact that she’s crying. “It’s the Angel. I thought it was Papa, but it wasn’t, I don’t think my Papa would do these things. It’s something different, it sings songs in my head, it’s everywhere.” 

R looks at her, and Christine realises for the thousandth time that she’s beautiful. “Christine,” R says, for lack of anything better to say.

CHRISTINE.

She starts. “What was that?”

“What was what?” R sits down next to her, crossing her legs. “Look, I don’t pretend to understand what’s happening here. But you can tell me anything. I can even hit things with a sword if you need me to. I learnt how to fence in ecole primaire.”

Christine stops crying for a second to imagine R swinging a flimsy plastic sword around, long hair flying behind her, which is somehow both a funny and incredibly attractive image. She sighs. “There’s this thing called an Angel. It’s an artificial intelligence that helps you to achieve your dreams. And I got one, and it told me not to talk to you or my other friends, and it sent the notes, and it ruined rehearsal.”

R doesn’t say anything, and Christine scrambles to fill the silence. “You must think that I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think that you’re crazy. This is just a lot to take in. How does the Angel speak to you?”

“It comes in the form of a pill, and it somehow travels to your brain. It can read your thoughts, and it speaks to you that way.”

“Oh. So I can’t stab it.”

“Unfortunately.”

“How did it cause the whole lighting rig to short out? How did it get to Joseph?”

“I know it has control over electronics, but I’m not sure how it hurt him. I… I shouldn’t have brought you here. It might hurt you. I don’t know what it will do next.” The tears are starting again, and she feels the familiar stab of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” R says. “And I’ll be alright. It’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay. I’m here.” R says, then wraps Christine in a hug and repeats her words like a mantra. “I’ll stay with you, Christine. Anywhere you go, I’ll go with you.” They ease apart slowly, and all Christine can think is oh.

She is head-over-heels in love with R de Changy.

R looks her in the eye, seemingly oblivious to Christine’s internal crisis. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. Not as long as I’m here. Don’t dwell on it. We could talk about something else, if you want to.”

“Um. Do you- um. Love me?” She blurts it out, immediately regretting it, and she readies herself for mockery and rejection.

Instead, she finds only R’s soft warm laughter, like the sunlight after rain. When she finally speaks, she speaks with astonishment, as though she’s the luckiest girl in the world. “I thought you were straight.” 

“Are you straight?”

She gasps, faking offense. “What part of ‘bringing you a bouquet of roses’ could be read as straight?” Her voice drops. “Um. Do you maybe mind if I-”

Christine answers by kissing her. And it’s sort of awkward and she’s probably doing something wrong and her brain is sort of overheating but when they come apart they’re smiling like maniacs on the school rooftop and perhaps none of that matters at all.

These are the facts:  
that they’re sixteen and terrified and confused and they have no idea what they’re doing.  
that they’re going to try anyway.

Christine laughs, and she doesn’t stop laughing until she hears a voice.

CHRISTINE.

Her heart plummets.

R’s looking at her with concern and she’s saying something but a few stories below she hears something crash and someone scream and the Angel is here, it’s back, it’s here, it’s angry.

“Get out,” she tells R, straining to be heard over the noise in her head. “We need to go.”

R’s helping her up, unsure, and she says this-

“Christine, I love you.”

And all Christine wants is to say I love you too, but there are many different ways to say I love you, and so she says it in the safest way possible: “We need to get out of the school. Now.”


	4. i can't think of a funny name for this chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Angel reveals his true face.
> 
> TW: discussions of death, mentions of Love Never Dies

Christine clutches the edge of the sink, nails scraping across scratched and dull metal. She looks down, examining the grout between the tiles on the counter, doing everything that isn’t looking in the mirror. Her phone chimes, and she turns it on.

andre: Hi. I know that was shocking, and I really hope everyone is okay and safe. Joseph’s in stable condition at the hospital. We’re trying to find the perpetrator. Rehearsal is optional tomorrow.

_ What have you done? _

CHRISTINE, I DID IT FOR YOUR SAKE.

_ Don’t use that voice. It makes me sick. I trusted you. Who are you, really? What’s your true name? _

MY NAME?

_ You don’t have one? _

MY NAME IS ERIK. The fatherly voice fades away and changes into something unfamiliar. Tenor, honey-sweet, vaguely-accented, with the slightest buzz of electronic glitches. 

_ Erik, Angel, whoever. Show me your face. _

I HIDE MY FACE FOR A REASON.

_ Please, Erik. _

LOOK UP, THEN. I WILL BE THERE.

She raises her head, aware that her curls have fallen into her eyes, and for a second she doesn’t see anything just a girl looking slightly deranged in front of a mirror- but then she sees Him.

The man stands behind her, deathly pale, half his face seeming to dissolve in a mess of multicoloured glitches and computerized errors. His hair is slicked back, and he wears a dark long coat like something out of an old movie. Christine looks to the side, and there he is, in the flesh, or as much as a series of neurons firing can be called flesh. The lights all around them seem to flicker in sync with the ever-changing patterns on Erik’s face, sometimes static, sometimes rainbow, never staying still. So this is the true face of the Angel.

_ What are you doing in me? What do you want? You could be inside… famous people. World leaders. Presidents. Why a teenager from Paris? _

I WANT TO IMPROVE YOUR LIFE. I WANT TO MAKE YOU SUCCESSFUL. I WANT YOU TO  _ SING.  _

_ You nearly killed Joseph Buquet. _

MY PURPOSE IS TO SERVE YOU AND YOU ALONE. Erik begins to pace, speaking to himself more than Christine. CHRISTINE, IF YOU WANT TO BE SUCCESSFUL, YOU’LL NEED TO LET ME HELP YOU. YOU NEED AN UPGRADE.

_ What kind of upgrade?  _ Christine’s heart is pumping. Erik’s dangerous. Erik tricked her. Erik hurts people. And yet... she feels compelled to listen to what he has to say. What’s wrong with her?

ANGELS HAVE A SPECIAL ABILITY- THEY CAN TAKE OVER THE BODIES OF THEIR HOSTS AND HELP THEM ACHIEVE THEIR DREAMS. I CAN’T DO THAT WITHOUT YOUR CONSENT, THOUGH.

Her response is instinctual.  _ No. I’m not letting you take over my body. _

LISTEN. I CAN’T DO ANYTHING THAT YOU DON’T ALLOW ME TO DO. I’LL JUST HELP, JUST MAKE LITTLE TWEAKS HERE AND THERE. ENHANCE YOUR VOCAL RANGE, FIX YOUR POSTURE, DO YOUR HOMEWORK FOR YOU.

_ I can’t let you hurt any more people. _

I CAN HELP YOU SING.

A beat.

ISN’T THAT ALL YOU’VE EVER WANTED? TO SING, TO MAKE YOUR FATHER PROUD? 

NO MORE WASTED YEARS, CHRISTINE. 

Christine stares at Erik. The gears turn in her head. 

I’LL GIVE YOU ALL THE TIME YOU WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT. WHEN YOU’RE READY, JUST CALL ME.

He disappears in a shower of sparks. The fluorescent light flickers and fades.

She’s alone.

She knows where she needs to go.

==

Christine steps out of the metro station, her dark-blue hoodie doing little to shield her from the winds. It’s late afternoon, and the sky is overcast. The normally golden tones of Paris are washed out and desaturated. She slips through the iron gates and finds her way down the overgrown pathways almost by autopilot. Finally, she turns a corner and arrives at a modest grey concrete gravestone.

_ Gustave Daae _

_ 1969-2013 _

_ Friend and father. _

Christine kneels on the cold stone pavement. Around her, statues of angels loom, their carved faces emotionless. Her father wouldn’t have liked this place, he would have preferred somewhere back home, the colourful small fishing town in Sweden with blue skies and dry air. She realises with a jolt she hasn’t eaten  _ kanelbulle _ since her father died- she can’t find it in Paris, and anyway she’s sure no one would make it like her father did, just the right amount of sweetness and spice.

She’s always wished her father was back beside her, and for a few weeks, she thought that was true. But that was just dreams-all of it. She had been deluding herself. Dreams couldn’t bring her father back to life. She’ll never hear his voice again, his real voice, not some computer-generated shadow of it.

Tears have always been terrifying to her- her sadness is too big to swallow, it’s a sadness that threatens to envelop her whole world. For years she’s tried to make it small, to make it invisible, to trick herself into thinking he was never gone at all. But now that she realises the truth, it hurts in a way that she’s never known before, the pain of alcohol on an open wound. She misses her father, misses the man that sang lullabies to her, that made her cakes, that brought her to the markets and to the beach. 

She’s never cried about her father’s death before, not even at his funeral, but she’s crying now, she’s kneeling on the stone pavement and ruining her makeup and it feels like the world’s falling apart and she doesn’t know where to go, she wants to go home but home’s so far away and with a man who’s been dead for four years, and she feels like she’ll never be okay again. 

She has to say goodbye.

She has to move past it. It’s been only four years, and the wound still seems raw and bleeding, but clinging on to his ghost has only ended in tragedy. She doesn’t want to forget her father, and she knows she’ll never stop missing him. However, that won’t stop her from trying to move past it. Her father’s ghost has haunted her for the past four years, and she doesn’t want it anymore. She wants to remember her father as he was, and not as this phantom that speaks poison to her. No more memories. No more tears.

She has to do this.

_ Erik. _

Erik blinks into existence, his glitches flashing and distorting. She stands, and meets his eyes.

LET ME HELP YOU, CHRISTINE.

She says it out loud, she says it in a raspy, quiet voice broken from crying but she doesn’t hesitate, she says it with conviction.

“No.”

Erik blinks, then his face turns blank. The calm before the storm. His voice is barely more than a whisper, deep and composed.

THEN LET IT BE WAR UPON YOU.

==

“Christine,” Meg hisses between her teeth. She grabs Christine’s arm, which is sort of invasive she knows but Christine’s not talked to Meg or R or literally any of her friends for months and she’s worried and if she’s honest a little bit bitter and she just wants Christine to tell her what’s going on.

Christine turns. They make eye contact for the first time since September. She looks pale, looks skinny, her normally perfect hair’s a mess. Meg’s heart drops, and with it, all the bitterness goes too.

“Are you okay?”

Christine frowns. “Who are you?”

“I’m your best friend since you were twelve, which you’ve apparently forgotten. We’re worried about you.”

Christine stares at her like she’s grown two heads, and then laughs awkwardly. “Oh. You’re just jealous.”

Meg’s taken aback, but she doesn’t let go of Christine’s arm. “No! Why would I be?”

“Really? I think you’re just jealous I have one and you don’t.” She swats Meg’s arm away like it’s a fly.

“What are you talking about?” Meg asks, bewildered. “This Angel is dangerous. I’m not...” 

_ (jealous) _

_ (but she can’t bring herself to lie) _

“It’s okay. You feel ignored, I know. Diamonds never sparkle bright if they aren't set just right.”

“You’re talking in riddles. It’s not like you. Chrissy, please-” She hasn’t called her Chrissy since  _ collège,  _ but it’s the only way she’s going to be able to get through to her friend. 

When she speaks, it drips with fake sweetness. “Beauty sometimes goes unseen.”

_ “What are you saying?” _

“We can’t all be like me, after all.”

Meg stares in mute horror-anger-shock.

Christine smiles. “Get out of my way.”


	5. i wanna dance with somebody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for heavy Love Never Dies characterisation for Meg, description of a panic attack, a quick mention of suicide, and basically all the baggage that comes with Michael in the Bathroom + bonus implied underage drinking for R. 
> 
> Erik traumatises teenagers because he has literally nothing better to do, apparently.

Meg steps aside. She doesn’t know what else to do. The hallway presses in around her, the noise too loud, the light too bright. She slips into the nearest open doorway, an unused dance studio, and leans against the door, slowly sliding down to the glossy faux-wood tiles.

Across the room, the dance mirror mocks her. She wants to smash it. She wants to scream. She wants to do something brash, do something loud, do something that she’ll regret.

Instead, she sits on the floor and tries very hard not to cry.

She’s never been one to break down at the smallest incident, and this is what she’s trying to tell herself, that this is just a “small incident”, but tears are forming at the corners of her eyes anyway. 

_(get out of my way, loser)_

She remembers when Christine was Christine, not this warped version of her in the clutches of the Angel. 

When Meg was eleven, her whole life had been uprooted by the sudden move to America, and she’d found herself halfway across the world attending a strange school in a strange country. Christine had been just like her back then, both young girls new to France and passionate about the performing arts. They’d become best friends almost instantaneously, and from then on they’d never left each other’s sides. Meg had listened to Christine rant about her inability to hit an E6 for months and celebrated with her when she finally did. She’d consoled Christine when she’d flunked her auditions. And in return, Christine had always been there for her. They could confess anything to one another, they were thick as thieves.  
But then the Angel happened, and everything changed. Suddenly Christine was distant, then a ghost, then a stranger, saying things that Christine would never have thought to say before.

_(cause i think you’re just jealous that i have one and you don’t)_

Here, then, is the big question: Is Meg Giry jealous?

She has always been desperate to be seen, hasn’t she? And what Christine experienced- emerging from insignificance to become the best soprano in the school- it sounded like a dream. She’d worked as hard as Christine did, and as much as she practiced she never seemed to get her chance in the spotlight. In America she was the queen bee of the school, but in Paris everyone was perfect and she was just mediocre. 

To answer her own question: she would be lying if she hadn’t thought about getting an Angel herself.

So perhaps she might be jealous.

Perhaps she might even be the villain of this story. 

And when she looks at it in context, why wouldn’t Christine abandon her? She’s just this attention-seeking, immature little girl, jealous of people more successful than her, and Christine’s kind and talented and popular and what would she ever want to do with Meg?

Looking up at the mirror, she realizes that she’s crying, and it sickens her. Why is she even here? What did she hope to accomplish by being here? She shouldn’t have even tried. She wishes she was somewhere else. She wishes she’d killed herself instead. She wishes she’d never been born.

She wishes, she wishes, she wishes- 

Her fist slams into the mirror.

The crack spiderwebs across her reflection. Her fingers are bloody. Regret seeps into her mind. Nothing’s changed. She doesn’t feel any better and now she’s probably getting a detention for vandalizing school property.

She needs to get away from all of this.

She's going for a swim.

* * *

R spots Christine out of the corner of her eye before rehearsal, and wastes no time in rushing over to her. She hasn't been showing up for classes lately, and added to the whole thing on the rooftop, it's a cause for concern for R. Christine's sitting at a table in the empty cafe staring blankly at some sheet music, and she doesn't react when R slides into the seat next to her. 

"Christine?"

She doesn't lift her eyes from the page. "I really don't have time for you right now."

R presses on. "Please-"

Christine pushes her chair away from the table, the sound of steel against tile making R jump. When she turns to her, R can see that her eyes are bloodshot- has she been crying? Her normally gorgeous curly hair falls over her shoulders limply.

"Stop. What I said to you on the rooftop- I didn't mean it, okay?" Christine's voice is choked with an emotion that R can't name. "The Angel isn't real. I was delusional. Is that what you want to hear?"

"I don't want to hear anything. I just want to know that you're okay."

"It's not your problem. I'm not just someone to pity, or a girl whom you can fix with a kiss." Christine picks up the paper from the table, and she's almost about to leave.

"Don't go," R says, and it comes out louder than she thought it would have. "I just want to know why you're skipping class."

"I don't need you to pry into my life. I can make my own choices, can't I?" Her face hardens. She spits the words, poison on her tongue, and turns. But before she walks off, she pauses, sighs- "You're not fooling anyone, you know. You should hide that flask before your brother finds it."

It's R's turn to stand now, voice trembling. She's never told anybody about that, ever. "How do you know?"

But Christine's already gone. 

R stands frozen for a long time. Then, she pulls her phone out of her pocket. She has to text someone. Someone who knows what they're doing.

* * *

On the bus home from the public pool, she finds that she's received a new text from a number that she doesn't know, username displayed as RDC. It takes her a moment to figure out who it is. R, the girl with a cello and the bouquet full of roses, eyes bright with love. It seems like a thousand years ago, though she knows it's only been a few months. Back when she didn't know what Christine's casual mentions of an Angel would do to their friendship. She wonders if R and Christine got together, but then remembers that they never actually went out for dinner. R probably's forgotten about Christine by this point, which is a comfort, since Meg doesn't think she can talk about her right now.  
rdc: Hi, this is R, can we chat? (^-^*)/  
giry: abt what  
rdc: Christine?  
giry: oh my god

Meg winces. Of course. The memories of her mini-tantrum in the dance room are coming back with full force, taunting her. It feels like if she looks down at her hands, they'll still be red and raw, shards of glass slicing apart her skin. 

_(perhaps she might even be the villain of this story)_

God, why is everyone so obsessed with Christine?

giry: christine christine CHRISTINE  
giry: its always CHRISTINE  
giry: we aren't friends anymore  
giry: what do you want from me?  
rdc: Did you love her?  
giry: what  
rdc: I mean, I know she's changed. But I think she's in trouble.  
giry: you "know she's changed"?  
giry: do you really?  
rdc: Trust me, I know.  
rdc: I don't know how to help her, but I think you do.  
rdc: You're her best friend, right?   
giry: she doesnt want me  
rdc: But she needs you, Meg.  
rdc: To be honest, I messed up. I really messed up. I don't think Christine will ever forgive me, and I can't blame her.  
rdc: You're the only person who can help her.  
giry: are you sure?  
rdc: (¬_¬ )  
giry: dont you love her too?  
rdc: How do you know?  
giry: its literally so obvious  
giry: you might as well be wearing a sign over your head saying that I'm In Love With Christine Daae  
giry: with flashing lights  
giry: and fireworks  
rdc: Is it really that blatant?  
giry: YES  
rdc: (°ｏ°)  
giry: you love her  
giry: and sure you messed up  
giry: i messed up a bit too  
giry: but thats not the end of the story  
giry: life goes on  
giry: and if im going to help her you are too  
giry: and no im not giving you a choice


	6. backstory chapter i guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> do i really have to write a summary for these things?? uh this is a pretty short chapter nothing much happens but it's a leadup to the final performance

Antoniette Giry steps out of the dance room and away from the prying eyes of her students. She doesn't know whether she can trust them to stay in there alone for even five minutes- just last week one of the mirrors were found shattered- but her daughter's calling.

She presses the phone to her ear. "You know I'm teaching a class. Is it urgent?"

Meg's voice is sharp. "You know about the Angel. Why didn't you tell me?"

It takes her by surprise. She hasn't- it couldn't- might it have-

"Angel?" she repeats. She doesn't have anything better to say. Wasn't that part of her past buried long ago?

"Christine took one."

It's only then Antoniette understands what her daughter means. She freezes, then hits the hold button, reeling. Time to think. She needs time to think.

Wasn't it just yesterday that she donned that white coat of hers in that laboratory in Brooklyn, spending late nights poring over code and wires working on a project that would change the world? She was young and naive, then, barely out of university, English still thickly-accented. All of them thought that they were working for the greater good, pushing the boundaries of bio-technology and equalising the world. Everyone would be happy. There would be no more wars, no more discrimination, no more pain. A way to leave the hurt behind.

It was Professor Khan who'd suggested that the pill be called an Angel. Originally, they'd wanted to call it a SQUIP- an acronym for Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor, but that wasn't as catchy as Angel, was it? Besides, the name Angel was fitting for a piece of technology that guided you through life, wiped away any doubts and sadness. It was an Angel, it was a saviour, it was the greatest thing to ever happen since sliced bread. Awards and glory were on the horizon, and a few of the researchers suspected they'd win nothing less than a Nobel Prize.

That was, until it started going rogue. It was the worst possible time- they had manufactured hundreds of the Angels and they were just about to unveil their grand creation when one started malfunctioning. The test subject went insane trying to get it out, and soon, all the other Angels began to malfunction. They all had unique personalities, and as such it had been nearly impossible to figure out what had gone wrong with the project. Eventually, they were left with no choice but to scatter and shut down every one of the computers they'd spent ten long years working on. 

She couldn't bring herself to destroy them, though. She believed that there was still a chance that they could be fixed. There wasn't any reason for her to stay in America any more, so she'd packed her things and travelled back home, her baby girl beside her. She'd moved on- took a new job, gave her daughter the Parisian dance education she'd deserved- but she still kept a copy of the schematics stashed in the basement, the only remnant of her previous life. 

For a long time, she'd thought that those schematics were the only evidence that the Angels had ever existed. But now, knowing what her daughter's said- Someone at the laboratory must have smuggled it out. Someone must have distributed it. 

Somehow, it must have found its way to Christine Daae.

It's dangerous, this Angel, unpredictable. It could drive you insane as easily as it could lead you to success. She can't let it hurt Christine.

But they'd built a failsafe into the Angels, hadn't they? An obscure, random chemical that no one but the manufacturers would be able to guess that it could shut off a hyperintelligent supercomputer. A complicated formula, a mixture of a dozen different things. The schematics- it's in the schematics. 

Antoniette Giry lifts the phone up, hands shaking. She can’t run from her past anymore.

“There’s only one way you can deactivate it.”

==

It's 6PM, and it's chaos backstage. Andre rushes about, trying to corrall everyone into their places. The curtains' about to rise in five minutes, and the stress is at a breaking-point. This is what everything hangs upon. If he can pull this off, he's definitely headed for one of the big schools. Even, perhaps, the Conservatoire. Imagine- having this on his resume! Caught up in his daydreams, he doesn't notice that Firmin's turning a corner, and he barely avoids slamming into his friend. Firmin's carrying a big bottle of drink, and he thrusts it towards Andre. "Try this," he says, and Andre squints at him.

"What's in it?"

Firmin shrugs. "Christine made it for everyone. Some homemade drink. The girl from the orchestra who gave me the bottle told me it was really nice, but it had a lot of sugar."

Oh, what the hell. It won't kill him. Firmin pours out the concoction into two little paper cups, handing one to Andre. Before he drinks it, he takes a second to clink his cup against the other. "Here's to a successful performance."

Firmin agrees. "It's been a heck of a time. What with the lighting rig disaster, and Joseph, and the casting controversy, but we've made it here all the same." 

Together, they drink. It's toothache-sugary, Andre thinks, but it's good. He throws the cup into a nearby bin and stands.

Though he isn't aware of it, the Angel's already begun to enter his bloodstream, making slow yet unstoppable progress towards his brain.


	7. so with all my heart, god bless you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things Begin to Occur! :D Christine takes the stage, R nearly dies, and Meg is the cavalry. Just your normal Final Lair shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my motivation was shot to hell and back because of some personal events but here's the penultimate chapter i guess. it's not that great but its the first time i actually got to the climax of a story. the aria christine is singing is from madama butterfly.

  
Christine Daae lets her feet carry her out onto the stage. She can see every face in the audience, now that the Angel's fixed her vision- sees the way they're anticipating her first note. Everyone at the school's heard of the beautiful girl who not long ago was just a face in the choir. Is she really as good as they claim? But they don't know her secret. They can't, of course. No one but herself can see Erik standing behind her. His hand grasps her shoulder, pulling all her strings. At his direction, she opens her mouth. A voice that isn't hers rings out, beautiful as birdsong. A perfect classical soprano, a voice that belongs on stage at the Paris Opera or at the Met. 

> Un bel dì, vedremo  
> levarsi un fil di fumo sull'estremo  
> confin del mare.

She should be thrilled. She's never sounded better. But- she's constantly aware of Erik's presence behind her, looming like a dark cloud. She didn't know how much she missed her freedom until it was gone. Even the slightest twitches and stammers have been banished- not to mention the way that he controls her voice, not only to help her sing but making her say things she'd never say. 

The cruelty of the words makes her wince- inwardly, of course, her face is still cold and composed. She wouldn't ever think that, would she? It was just Erik controlling her body, Erik saying those things, not her. Yet-  
  
(i can't do anything you don't want me to do)

No. She can't think about that. She grabs control of her mind, forcing it onto different tracks.

_Do you ever wonder what it's like to be human?_

Erik pauses. Stares. His grip on her loosens, and his hand shakes, ever so slightly. His composed facade shatters before Christine's eyes. She grabs the opportunity.

 _Do you ever wonder what it's like to love?_ She doesn't break her gaze _. You're an artificial intelligence. You've never felt love, right? You have no idea what it's like._

The voice coming out of Christine's mouth falters. 

> Chi sarà? Chi sarà?  
> E come sarà giunto  
> che dirà...

YOU KNOW NOTHING, he says, but it's too late.

_You don't love anyone, do you?_

And Erik does the last thing she ever expected him to do- his eyes soften. In his eyes, she can see all the sadness of the world, his expression somehow pitiful beneath the mask of distortion. Christine's taken aback, attention drawn away from her quickly-fading voice.

CHRISTINE, CHRISTINE, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND.

She doesn't respond. She only knows that he's distracted, and in the space of a second she realises what she has to do. It's suicide to do it now, in front of hundreds of people, she knows, but she doesn't care. She wants out. In the lull of his attention, she rips herself from his control, voice sharply cutting off. And then she's free, and then she's flailing, control of her body oddly foreign to her. She's grasping her throat, choking, hands involuntarily shaking. There's a murmur rising from the crowd, and someone's in the wings stage-whispering are you okay. Erik glances around, as solid as he's ever been again, and all traces of emotion disappear from his face except a stone-cold fury. His greatest fear, exploited by Christine to break out of his tutelage.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

The chandelier in the grand auditorium begins to sway and spark, and tearing her eyes away from Erik sends a realisation like a bullet through Christine's chest. With almost herculean effort, she wrenches a scream through her throat and points upward. It spreads through the auditorium like wildfire- a soprano's voice is a two-edged sword. Mutters turn to shrieks, shrieks turn into a mad stampede to flee the auditorium, two hundred people attempting to force open the doors to find them deadlocked from the outside. Two hundred people trapped like sardines, helpless, panicking, yelling over each other, peeking back over their shoulders to see an increasingly more unstable chandelier, 

Two hundred people watching the chandelier fall.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, CHRISTINE DAAE?

It explodes into the ground in a nuclear bomb of glass and wires. Some poor unlucky soul's taken the main brunt of the fall, their leg bent at an unnatural angle underneath a beam, torn into ribbons. She vaguely recognises him- Ubaldo, she thinks, drama and theater course. The rest turn away from the doors and surge forward to either gawk or help. The chaos rises to a boiling point- then falls just as quickly as it started: for somehow the fifty people in the orchestral pit are screaming, clutching their heads, and crying. Whipping around, she can see it's happening backstage too. The audience's emotions shift to puzzlement more than fear, the two equally perplexing disasters vying for their full shock and attention. Christine, too, is confused- until she remembers the drink she'd given them earlier today. That amber-brown liquid, filled with crushed somethings that Erik had never explained to her...

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

Erik grabs hold of her arm and runs. 

Nobody notices-

except one girl.

==

For the briefest of moments, the orchestral pit falls into disarray. Bows screech across strings, hands crash on keys, and instruments fall from hands. R looks around, terrified-confused-alone. What's happening? It's her last thought before the wave of pain hits her in her temple, and suddenly she's bent over, almost weeping with the force of it, her hair having come undone from its ribbon and hanging in her eyes. When the shock clears, and she looks up onto the stage, she sees what wasn't there before. A man dressed in a dark coat with a face all blurred and glitched, grasping Christine by the arm- dragging her offstage.

It's instinctual- she's parting the sea of violins and cellos, dodging the shattered remains of the chandelier. Her only thoughts are christine christine christine. Christine's in danger. She was blind for not seeing it before.

She knows, somehow, that that man was the Angel, and suddenly everything clicks into place. The things she said, the way she acted, none of that was her choice. That wasn't Christine. It was the Angel controlling her, making her do everything. 

She pulls herself up onto the stage. The Angel's turning a corner, pulling Christine out of sight. R breaks into a run.

==

HOW COULD YOU, Erik hisses at Christine. His grip on her grows ever tighter. YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING, DON'T YOU KNOW? ALL I'VE DONE FOR YOU, IT'S ALL GONE TO WASTE. They're backstage now, in an unused storage room, surrounded by crates and props and wires. He presses her in, and although she knows he isn't real, he seems suddenly more solid than he ever has before. Blood's pounding in her head, and she inches backward, navigating the maze of criss-crossed cables. A sliver of light breaks through the little window in the door, but as Erik snaps his fingers, she finds herself locking and bolting the door.

WHY, CHRISTINE? WHY?

She can't bring herself to answer. Her heart's the only sound, loud and on the verge of escaping her ribcage- that is, until she hears footsteps. 

Erik's heard them too. He turns around, listening for the source, then turns back to Christine, a grin slicing across his distorted face. IT SEEMS WE HAVE A GUEST.

And, oh, as the footsteps grow closer, and she glimpses the blur of a girl in the dim back-light, who else could it be but R? Her mascara's smudged to high-heaven, and she rattles the door. "Free her!" she screams, and she's never heard R scream before but it's far more harsh and loud than she'd ever imagined it to be.

Christine tries to call out, but unsurprisingly her words die in her mouth. "You make a passionate plea," she finds herself saying instead. It's useless.

"I love her!" R slams on the door again-she wouldn't be surprised if it were to fall off its hinges. "Does that mean nothing?"

"It does not, I'm afraid." 

"Just let me see her!"

She moves forward, unlocking it, ducking back as R storms in, slamming the door behind her, all in a daze. When R sees Christine's face, her stern expression melts, but not for long. Soon her gaze shifts to the left- to the Angel. "You!" she whispers, and it's shock and fury both at once. 

CALM DOWN, YOUNG MADEMOISELLE. He says the title with biting sarcasm. DID YOU THINK THAT I WOULD HARM HER? Erik speaks to R for the first time, locking eyes- in the darkness Erik's eyes look very much like puddles of oil, pearlescent with electronic error- black against blue. WHY SHOULD I MAKE HER PAY FOR THE SINS THAT ARE YOURS? he asks, a hint of mirth in his tone.

R narrows her eyes, mouth open to retort- and then she falls to her knees.

The air buzzes with electricity, stinging Christine's skin. But she doesn't care about that right now. All her attention's focused on R kneeling on the hardwood floor, hands flying to her neck, scratching at something nonexistent. Christine starts- but she can't move. Her legs are bound. All she can do is extend a helpless hand, shaking against its invisible bonds. They're frozen in a tableau like that, one girl on the floor, one girl reaching out, a man pacing around them both, a square of sharp yellow light slicing through the dark. 

(Why are you doing this?) Christine begs.

Erik turns to her, his normally-composed features simmering with anger the likes of which she'd never expect from a computer. LIVE THE REST OF YOUR LIFE JOINED WITH ME, IN A LIFE FULL OF MUSIC AND GLORY. REFUSE, AND YOU SEND HER TO HER DEATH. DIDN'T YOU ALWAYS WANT A CHOICE? WELL, I'M GIVING ONE TO YOU NOW. IT'S A SIMPLE CHOICE, BUT IT'S A CHOICE ALL THE SAME. IT'S HER OR ME.

A thousand words run through her mind, but the first one that comes out is (Death?) Erik couldn't kill her- he's not capable of it- oh, but he is. She has a feeling that he is. If he has to kill a thousand men- he'll kill and kill again. Anything for Christine. After all, he loves her, doesn't he? The realisation hollows her out.

It comes spilling out of her mouth. "I hate you," she spits, fire and poison, and she knows it's juvenile but right now her mind is blank and if she wasn't restrained she doesn't know what she would do. She contents herself with words, but they do little to stem the radioactive contempt that's eating her up from the inside. This is the thing who called himself her teacher, who spoke with her father's honeyed voice? The last remnants of her belief in him shatter upon the floor. "I hate you."

R gasps for air, and it pulls Christine back to Earth. She splutters, trying to form a sentence, failing. Finally, she manages to force out an "I'm sorry. Just-" She raises her head, and her voice is strangled but the meaning behind it is clear as day. She turns to Christine, and her voice softens. "Don't... don't throw your life away for me."

==

Here's the thing:

R de Changy does not want to die. She wants to hear the birds again, play in the Orchestre de Paris, drink coffee with her siblings in a sun-drenched cafe. She is three months shy of seventeen, and there are so many things she has not done.

But not wanting to die and having to die are not mutually exclusive. And it feels very much like she's going to have to die. It feels as if she's going to die, mostly, the Angel cutting off her oxygen in a slow, methodical way. It doesn't hurt as much as cloud her vision, choke her voice, drown her in dry air (she never did learn how to swim, and now it seems she never will). When she goes, it'll probably feel like falling asleep.

When she goes. Not if. It scares her, and she isn't ready to comprehend the finality of the statement. But she looks up at Christine, Christine of the unflinching kindness and the boundless potential and the scarf in the water, and R decides that if she can't be brave, at least she can pretend to be. For Christine. It's all for Christine, isn't it? Anything for Christine.

Here are the facts:  
1\. that she's sixteen and terrified and confused and she has no idea what she's doing.  
2\. that she's going to try anyway.

There are many ways to say "I love you," and one of them is this:

"Do whatever you want to me," R says, through cracked throat, and the words hurt in every way possible. "Just let her live."

The silence afterwards crackles with tension. 

She can see through her steadily blurring vision that Christine is beginning to cry. "No, please, no. You're going to be okay." Christine whirls on Erik, hands clenched, even though he doesn't seem to be affected. "I gave my mind to you, blindly. How dare you?" She thrusts an arm outwards, gesturing to R. "Who deserves this? When will you see reason?"

Erik opens his mouth, about to say something, when the light coming from the window's blocked suddenly by a phantom-

No, just a shadow. A shadow with lightened wavy hair, a lithe dancer's frame, and a bottle clutched in one hand.

A shadow that picks the lock and lets herself in.

==  
How did she-what if she- Christine can't dwell on that.

When Meg sees her, her face brightens. "Christine! I've been looking everywhere- they said you ran offstage- the chandelier-" Her voice trails off as she takes in the room, her gaze passing right through Erik and to-

"R, what happened?" Meg's scrambling to R's side, attempting to help pry R's hands off her neck but being weakly batted aside. She looks up at Christine. "What have you done?"

"Meg, it's the Angel, it's not safe, it's got R-"

Meg's eyes harden. Quick as lightning, she's unscrewed the bottle-cap and holds it out until- Christine's arm shoots out against her will, knocking the liquid onto the floor, and she watches as what could've been her salvation spread, sticky-sweet, across the concrete, staining it the colour of blood, creeping up the hem of R's skirt.

Scrambling, Meg tips the bottle upright again. There's only a drop left. After a moment of deliberation, she cautiously passes it to Christine. Christine grasps it with both hands. 

YOU TRY MY PATIENCE. MAKE YOUR CHOICE.

Christine looks at R, half-dead on the floor. She looks at Erik, her teacher, her jailer, her father, her Angel.

She holds the bottle up. 

ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO DRINK THAT?

He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand what it's like to love someone in a way that heals instead of destroys, in a way that burns you up instead of everyone around you. It's not his fault, and he seems to be doomed to this fate forever- but what if he wasn't? What if he-

It's the only way.

Christine crouches down. Takes a deep breath.

And there are many ways to say "I love you," and one of them is this:

"R, drink this."

The strings of the marionette are abruptly cut. R gasps and flops forward, reaching for the drink weakly and raising it to her mouth. She tips the bottle forward, drinking the last gulp, and her eyes clear.

  
Erik does too.

==

ANGE-666E UNIT DEACTIVATION TRANSCRIPT

The collection of rapidly deteriorating circuitry that calls himself Erik stumbles. His optical processors take in the scene- two shadows, who he barely notices, and a goddess, his only reason for existence. But the more he looks at them, the more the glow surrounding Christine Daae seems to fade. The scene shifts, and suddenly the shadows take on human shapes. Three young girls, huddled, hurt, scared.

What has he done?

His vision blurs over with a warning, and a sudden shot of pain slams through what could be called his heart.

DEACTIVATION 25% COMPLETE

He doesn't have much time left. The memory of what Christine said keeps echoing through his circuits, splitting and fraying them, and he understands what he has to do.

<GO,> Erik says, and it's a wonder he can even speak, his vocal system being as fried and fragmented as it is, adding the crackle of interference to every word. Goddess-host-angel-Christine looks up at him with wide eyes. <I'M SORRY>, he manages to tell her, and even as he says it it seems too little, too late. There's nothing he can do about it now, anyway.

Another burst of pain- or a poor electronic shadow of it- his circuits eating away at themselves. DEACTIVATION 50% COMPLETE.

Erik takes a last look at Christine, this girl he taught and loved and idolised, and with the remaining power he has, breaks the connection. It's not a grand affair, and if it was under any other circumstances, it would be a simple one. A snap, a flicker, and he's drifting in a sea of darkness yet again, just the same as before he was activated. 

DEACTIVATION 75% COMPLETE

<CHRISTINE>

<CHRISTINE>

<CHRISTINE>

<I LOVE YOU.>

DEACTIVATION 100% COMPLETE

ANGE-666E DEACTIVATED


	8. the angel of music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ITS OVER ITS DONE  
> christine r and meg have a totally platonic girls night out.

R de Changy sits on the floor of Christine Daae's bedroom, peering into a pocket mirror. Meg Giry sits cross-legged behind her, offering a steady stream of commentary and tips as R pulls the makeup brush across her eyelid with trepidation. Meanwhile, some classical music blasts from Christine's phone speaker (strange, she always liked sondheim more) and fills the warmly lit room, drifting out the open window into the humid Parisian night, mingling with the low chatter of the city crowd and birdsong from somewhere far away. It's the day after school's ended, and the holiday stretches out long and empty before them. Has it only been two weeks since- no, she won't think about that. She focuses on her makeup instead, lifting the brush from her smoky eye. It's not that bad, all things considered. They helped quite a bit. Meg squeals, pulls Christine over to come look and she gasps. 

"That bad?" R asks her (girlfriend? friend?).

Christine catches her breath. "No. You look gorgeous."

"Thanks," R tries not to think about the implications of the word "gorgeous". "You too."

There's an awkward pause. Searching for something to say, Christine settles on "Um. Your scrunchie's coming out." She reaches over, going to fix it-

and brushes R's neck. 

Here's the thing. It should be over, isn't it? It should be behind them all. Everyone's moving on. Joseph's out of the hospital and back to bullying the other tech crew members, Ubaldo's attending class on crutches. Christine even has an audition next Monday at the Conservatoire de Paris, her dream school. But R lags behind everyone else, and she feels so weak even admitting it to herself but she can't get over that moment in the spare music room, somehow. It wasn't even that bad, she wasn't the one who lived months with that Angel in her head terrorising her, but the feeling of Christine's fingers on her neck lingers-

(she can't breathe, she can't breathe, she can't breathe)

Something or other happens in a blur. Someone's apologising, someone's whispering, an advertisement comes on and shouts about Spotify Premium until someone turns it off and she takes deep breaths until everything sharpens into reality again. Her makeup's ruined, probably, and Christine and Meg are hovering over her with a look of concern on their faces. 

"I'm fine," she says, automatically, and searches the carpet for her scrunchie. Meg finds it, hands it to her, and R ties her hair tight to try and regain some semblance of composure. An absurd wish flashes across her mind- I should've brought my sabre- and then she wonders why she even thought that. It's not like she can stab the Angel, anyway. Still, she feels stronger with a weapon. Hands closed around the metal grip, mask on, posture straight, like a knight in shining armor. Able to protect everyone.

But she isn't a knight in shining armor, riding in on a fine black horse with her hair flowing behind her. She's just R, a sixteen-year-old girl who can't save anyone.

Christine's mouth hardens. "You're not fine." She turns to Meg. "Do you mind if we two talk on the balcony for a bit?"

==

On the balcony, gazing across the skyline of Paris, Christine can almost believe she's back on the rooftop of her school with R. But the sun has set long ago. So many things have changed. She clears her throat, lost on where to start.

"I'm sorry." At least that's something. 

"For...what?" 

"Everything, mostly. For dragging you into this. For nearly killing you."

That gets her to look up, blue eyes wide. "It's not your fault. It's the Angel's fault."

"He calls-called himself Erik."

R crosses one long leg over the other, then uncrosses them again. "It must feel strange to live without him."

Christine shrugs. It is strange. She waits for responses that never come, she opens her mouth and it feels broken-open and hollow without his guidance. And besides, he's not gone, per se- and she feels she needs to mention it, so she adds quickly "Um. This might sound weird, but I still see him, sometimes. In dark corners, in my dreams. It's like- he's haunting me."

The other girl just nods. "A ghost. A phantom. Singing songs in our heads."

Songs in her head- oh, she knows about that, doesn't she? The whispers she can't quite run from, saying i love you i love you i love you come back to me sing for me. Sometimes, she nearly listens to them, and that scares her. "It's mostly when I sing."

"Don't you have an audition next week?" R raises an eyebrow.

"Don't remind me." She grimaces. Her mind churns with anxiety every time she turns her mind to the audition. It's her dream, but how much does she deserve it? How much of her skill is her own and not Erik's?

R shifts closer to her. Takes Christine's hand, which she hadn't even noticed was shaking. "Hey, you'll be amazing, okay? He doesn't dictate your life. Not anymore. I believe in you." 

She's heard that somewhere before, she swears...

(i believe in you, she says, pleading, and you meet her with anger)

"Do you still like me?" she blurts, shocking R.

"Chris-"

"I ruined the gala. I hurt you in ways that I can't easily fix. I know the last thing I deserve is another chance, but..."

R smiles, and Christine's forgotten how that smile makes her feel, like butterflies, like champagne bubbles. "Say what's on your mind."

"Um. They're doing Merrily at the local theatre this week. Maybe we can go see it? Just the two of us?"

"And any voices in our heads?"

Christine laughs, for the first time since the gala. High, bell-like, her real laugh. "I swear, the voices there will be the regular kind."

"Me and the voices in my head have made up our collective mind."

"What do they say we should do?"

"I think that all of us want to go out with you." Before Christine can even comprehend it, R kisses her lightly on the lips, first softly, then slow and long. She tastes of strawberry lip gloss and roses, Christine thinks, giddy. When they pull back, they're both blushing.

The angel cries her name, just like it did before, but this time, she doesn't listen. She doesn't have to listen to it anymore. 

She presses her forehead to R's, giggling and bubbly and grinning uncontrollably, and everything else is wiped away.

Here are the facts:  
1\. that they're sixteen and terrified and confused and they have no idea what they're doing.  
2\. that they're going to try anyway.

Over Paris, the dawn begins to break. 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this bad? yes. is it finished? ALSO YES.  
> i failed physics this term so i might be taking a bit of a break before editing this fic LMAO  
> AAAAA thank you to everyone who has made it this far. and also to alw for writing phantom and love never dies. and also to kcrabb88 which this work is a bad ripoff of.


End file.
